


The Packout

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Stark Ranch [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cowboy Porn That Developed Feelings AND PLOT Goddamnit, Domestic Discipline, HORSES!, M/M, Polyamory, Slow Burn, alternate universe - cowboys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 07:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28614663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: You encourage me, and this is what you get.Story five of the Avengers As Cowboys Spanking and (eventually) Sex fic.I hope you're proud. Are we having fun?!~~~Peter's been looking forward to the packout with Tony and Harley all week, and the day finally arrives.
Relationships: Harley Keener/Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Stark Ranch [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893331
Comments: 61
Kudos: 91





	The Packout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TedraKitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TedraKitty/gifts).



> First off, let's hear it for the people who gave me the prompt, all of whom WILL BE GIFTED FUTURE FICS WHEN THERE IS FLAME:  
> khory, who has the spiciest gifs, and deserves all appreciation for the niceness of her spiceness!  
> Annalyn, who encourages the best  
> personaljunkdrawer, who is as filthy as he is talented, which is a staggering amount, really
> 
> For iamwithtony, or Peter Is A Twink Fight Me on Tumblr, for the moodboard which was just *chef kiss* perfect, and came at just the right time to knock me right off my smut and into an ocean of feelings.
> 
> For my cheerreaders, for telling me it's not shit, I should not delete it
> 
> Beta'd by the Supreme Team of jf4m and mindwiped.
> 
> Gifted to TedraKitty who requested that for my Ficmas, I update the series that I hadn't updated in the longest. Mind guessed UnPacked, but it was Stark Ranch! Surprise!
> 
> All remaining errors are mine.

“Grades are in!” shouts a teenage girl Peter doesn’t recognize, as Harley and Peter make their ambling way down the road for Peter’s daily horsemanship lesson. The sun is bright in the sky and there’s definitely a holiday feel to the Home Farm- the same feel it had the Friday before, Peter notes, even though the work around the ranch doesn’t stop for the weekend. The girl shouts, “Stop by the Home Office, why don’tcha?” 

“Ehhh,” calls back Harley, shaking his head in a display of unconcern, waving her off with a lazy hand. “I know mine’re good.”

“Only grade that’s good is one that’s good enough,” she calls back teasingly, shaking her head and turning away with her pony, joining a small pack of other girls.

Harley catches Peter’s look and shrugs, “What? It’s just Jubilee, teasing, she’s always teasing, loves to know everything before anybody else. Bet she knew Bobby snatched the gun before it was gone from the cabinet.”

Peter shakes his head and slots Harley a small smile. “So you think you’ve passed?”

“Passed, hell,” snorts Harley. “I expect they’re planning to name me valedictorian this time around.”

Three more people stop them to tell Harley that grades have arrived, Harley becoming more and more irritated with each interruption to their daily ride, an uncommon event. Harley usually thrives on the cheers and jeers and taunts and greetings of the people they pass. Peter notes the tight set of Harley’s shoulders and presses his lips together. Peter knows something about bravado, too.

When they get to the stable, Natasha and Thor are both just inside the door, digging through leather bags and sorting them into three piles, from what Peter can see.

“Oh, hey, you getting him kitted out? I can take it up,” offers Harley helpfully, not bothering to slide off of Tantrum. Peter drops to the floor as easily as he used to stand from a couch- and nearly as carelessly, too. He leads Karen into the first open guest stall and untacks her with an efficiency that he still marvels at. It’s as easy, now, to buckle and unbuckle her girth, to slip off her reins, as it is to slide his feet into tennis shoes and lace them up. He offers her a carrot as he closes the gate. Ever friendly, she sticks her head over the door to keep tabs on him and, for all he knows, listens to the conversation with interest.

“Yes, we are trying to figure out which bags will be most helpful, on your camping trip,” says Natasha distractedly, before frowning up at Harley and saying, “Grades are in- Xavier’s kids and Johnny were all buzzing about it during lessons, this morning.”

“I know,” says Harley, and underneath the irritation is so much defensiveness that Peter squints at the other teen, wondering if he should offer to go look at Harley’s grades and be available to soften any blows that may be inside. He’d done it for Ned in elementary school, when students were given their grades in crisp envelopes to carry home and Ned’s parents had been so nervous that they _hadn’t_ managed to raise a genius.

“Come, help us choose, and then you can show young Peter how to attach them properly,” booms Thor, nodding at the empty stall across the way. Harley rolls his eyes and huffs, but guides Tantrum into the stall and settles the horse just as easily as Peter had settled Karen. He wanders back and squints at the piles for a moment before saying, “You want us to haul the rejects back, too, or-?”

“That would be useful,” agrees Thor, smiling at him broadly. Peter doesn’t miss the slight bounce to Harley’s heels as he walks over to the smallest pile, clearly pleased to have earned Thor’s approval.

“These’re all good,” Harley tells them, toeing at the pile of canvas bags and leather straps. “Whatcha still looking for?”

“Peter’s colors are red and blue,” says Natasha absently. “This will not be your only campout this summer.”

“Oh, yeah, smart to just start ‘im out with a kit. You not moving him up from Karen?” asks Harley absently.

“Karen has formed a deep bond with Peter,” announces Thor, sounding pleased. “I would no sooner separate them than deny her apples in the fall.”

Natasha grins up at Peter with clear approval and he feels his face flush. “I like Karen,” he announces. It’s not a momentous announcement- he’s pretty sure everyone is aware of his attachment. But it’s the kind of thing that bears repeating. 

“She’s kinda small but sure, for a few months,” agrees Harley.

“Small but sturdy, my impatient friend,” chuckles Thor.

Harley digs through the canvas and leather pile and announces, “Here, okay, blue horn bags, red side bags, and this leather cantle bag with the red stitching. We can get Logan to stamp it with blue or whatever- maybe take Peter up to the workshop, having him stamp it himself. We both got mornings off right now, after chores.” 

Natasha and Thor consider his selections carefully before nodding. “Yes, these will do nicely,” Thor says decidedly, nodding.

“I believe we should sort these,” says Natasha slowly, looking at the assembled bags. Harley sighs but nods. “Y’all seriously should, Steve would have a heart attack.”

Natasha grins at Harley and says teasingly, “Well, teach us how the Tower folk would address the situation, O Sage.”

Peter watches Harley’s cheek flush pink as his shoulders hunch, but he leans forward and says, “Well, first off, put ‘em in groups by where they attach, right?” grabbing several smaller bags and putting them to one side.

Thor and Natasha look on with interest as Harley begins to dive through, ordering Peter to grab bags and lay them in separate piles.

It takes an entire half-hour, with two arguments over whether the kits that are complete should be stored separately from the individual bits and bobs, and by the end Peter is fascinated by how Natasha and Thor _have never done this_. They take to every one of Harley’s suggestions so easily, so calmly, so genuinely thoughtful and grateful that it’s hard to be suspicious but- but how _were_ they storing this gear?

The answer to that stomps in angrily as Harley settles back on his heels.

“And another thing,” the short, intense form of Logan hisses, sticking his head back into the barn, “I’m not helping you- oh. Hey, Harley.”

“How do,” drawls Harley, giving the man a slow nod.

“You helping them dig themselves outta the pit they’re in?” sneers Logan, looking around at the various piles of gear. “‘Cause I gotta say, didn’t figure you for a bootlickin’ teacher’s pet.”

“I ain’t,” Harley retorts calmly, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head, while Peter’s heart begins to thud with anxiety. “What’d they do’s got you so hot?”

“Came by this morning asking could I fashion up some gear for your newest- hi, kid,” Logan acknowledges Peter with a glare and a nod, “giving me eight hours! Said no, but they could dig through all my blanks, and while they were at it, they could stop interrupting me and take over the loaner equipment, since there’s no reason for it to clutter up my shop.”

“That’s fair,” agrees Harley cautiously, nodding at the compact, irritated man. “Peter’ll fashion his own gear, though- I can teach him. He’ll like it, I bet. Give us something to do with our mornings, if you don’t mind.”

“You always got a bench,” Logan tells Harley firmly, nodding at Peter and continuing to ignore Thor and Natasha as he turns on his heels and exits.

“He’s a little testy,” Thor tells Peter, raising his hand to tip it side to side in a teeter-totter motion.

“He always is,” mutters Harley, rolling his eyes and reaching for the first pile of small pommel packs, “when he’s fighting with Sabretooth.”

“They have a long history,” Natasha tells Peter, grinning. “Sabretooth is willing to take bullets for Logan, and I would say the same for Logan, but when either one is not happy with the other-” she whistles, making Thor and Harley grin and chuckle.

“They’ll be fine soon enough, Tony’s back,” pronounces Harley. “He’ll run Sabretooth ragged all next week, ‘til he gives up what the problem is, and then they'll tell Logan and they’ll fix it.”

“I would guess, his age is beginning to show,” says Thor with an air of grave sadness.

“Maybe, although you ask me, the both of ‘em never age,” chuckles Harley, elbowing Peter and nodding at a pile of hornbags. “Grab some of them, follow me.”

“We have cleared some shelving,” Natasha calls to Harley, moving to assist. “But some of these will have to line the floor, while deciding how best to make the gear available.”

“‘s good to have it out of the shop’s back corner,” Harley declares. “It was all fine there but it’ll be better here, and the barn’s more central space, anyway.”

“Harley here?” shouts a voice from the main stable, as they organize the first armloads of spare saddlebag gear on the shelves. 

“In here, Tony,” booms Thor from the door.

Peter watches as Harley’s face pales and he clenches his jaw tight, his shoulders regaining all the tension they’d lost, working through the gear.

“Hey, Half-pint, did you hear the grades came in?” asks Tony in an urgent voice.

Harley flinches and drops the last hornbag onto the shelf, turning to sneer, “No, gee, how weird, everybody ain’t been stopping all morning to tell me about it.”

“Hey, now,” drawls Tony. He frowns at Harley. “What’re you working on?”

Harley shrugs, as Natasha and Thor file out of the small supply room, leaving Peter tucked into the far corner and Harley standing alone near the shelving at the center, feet splayed and hands fiddling with the toggles on the saddlebags in front of him. 

“Peter, can you give us a moment?” asks Tony quietly. Peter startles before nodding and scampering across the room.

“Naw, I don’t-” mutters Harley, catching Peter’s arm to hold him in place. “I’m fine, I’m just- just nervous.” He blows out a breath and drops Peter’s arm to shuffle his feet for a second before looking up at Tony with anxious eyes, clearly gathering his courage. “I want to go on the campout tonight,” he confesses, cheeks reddening. “I don’t want anyone to ground me.”

Tony considers him, head tilting just slightly. Peter can practically hear the man’s gears working as he looks down at Harley’s bent head.

“You don’t think you did well,” Tony says, eventually.

Harley flinches. “Naw, I don’t- I did my best,” he tells the man, jaw clenching, glancing upward. 

Tony hums, and then gives a quick nod of his head, just once. “Come with me,” he demands, spinning on his heels.

“Thor, Nat, I’m taking the boys up to the Tower, you okay down here?” asks Tony, in a firm voice that makes it very clear he expects them to be just fine with this change of plans.

“We will be well,” intones Thor gravely, looking at the small piles of saddlebags. “Peter must learn to put his kit on Karen.”

“No time like the present,” huffs Tony, gesturing for the boys to pick up the bags, already moving to unlatch Karen’s stall door. “Harley, you go show him what’s what, I’m going to saddle, uh, Patriot, that good, Nat?”

“Patriot will appreciate the gentle workout, Tony,” agrees Nat, emphasizing _gentle_ in that calm way of her. “But if you take Suffragette, you will be ready for your campout this weekend.”

Harley makes a short noise, crowding into Peter, like he’s been stepped on. Peter glances back but Harley shakes his head, rolling his eyes impatiently and nodding at Karen’s flanks. Karen whuffles at Peter and he grins, just for her, remembering, _I would no sooner separate them than deny her apples in the fall._ He’s gonna feed Karen _so many_ apples this fall.

 _Or, wait, no. No. I’m only going to be here for a few months._ Peter pushes both thoughts away angrily, his heart thudding as he refuses to think about what either one means. 

“Fine,” agrees Tony shortly, interrupting Peter’s panic with the single clipped word. Peter watches the man, giving himself something to do as Tony closes the door to the stall and stalks out of sight.

Harley rolls his eyes expressively again, making Peter grin, his uneasiness dissipating as quickly as it had risen. “C’mere, city slicker,” teases Harley, helping Peter settle the saddle on Karen’s back with easy hands. “See this, right here? This ring? You slide the strap for the cantle bag right there-”

Harley is patient and thorough, as is Karen, nosing back at Peter’s shoulder several times to watch the attachment of the bags with interest. When the empty bags are secured, Harley lets himself out of the stall and leaves the door open wide, crossing to Tantrum’s stall with quick footed steps. He unclips Tantrum’s lead and mounts as fluidly as ever, and Peter, wide-eyed, follows suit. 

“C’mon, old girl,” croons Tony, sitting atop a beautiful bay, his red and gold saddle blanket standing out in sharp contrast, her black saddle and bridle gleaming beautifully against her brown coloration, and matching her mane. Tony clicks his tongue and the horse strides forward placidly. She must be Suffragette, thinks Peter, eyeing up her delicate bone structure and unable to come up with a horse more poorly suited to the name _Patriot_.

 _Tony’s_ confident in Harley’s good grades, Peter realizes, his heart lifting. He picked Suffragette because he thinks they’ll be riding out that night.

“Let’s go, follow me,” orders Tony shortly, nodding at Thor and Nat, who have cleared the last of the piles off of the floor in the interim. Nat and Thor both grin up at him, waving once as he passes by, Harley following on his flank and Peter a heartbeat behind Harley.

Tony leads the way at a brisk trot, getting them up to the Tower faster than the ambling walk Harley usually makes of the trip. He slides down faster than Harley or Peter can, just outside of the paddock, and opens the gate, leading Suffragette inside, and waiting patiently for Tantrum and Karen, as well, Karen and Suffragette touching noses as they pass. Harley jumps off of Tantrum silently, pulling off the horse’s tack and tossing it to rest on the fence, bridle draped across the saddle. He helps Peter with Karen’s tack, and when they turn, they find that Tony is done with Suffragette, waiting at the gate for both of them. Karen walks eagerly to Suffragette, Tantrum ambling off to the other end of the paddock, ignoring the two girls as they greet each other.

“Karen’s best friend,” announces Tony with a grin. “Two of ‘em are inseparable back at the Home farm, figured they’d want time to catch up on gossip. House, go, Harley,” he orders, not unkindly, Peter notes.

Harley leads the way through the mudroom, heeling out of his boots and calling, “Steve?! Bucky! Tony made us come back!”

“He did?” asks Bucky, popping into view from the kitchen, wiping his hands and scowling. “What for?”

“Grades came in, Harley’s in a tizz,” announces Tony, one hand on each boy’s shoulders, shoving them forward.

“In a tizz?” questions Bucky, eyeing up Harley. “Doesn’t look like it.”

Harley snorts his agreement while Tony argues, “Oh, no, he’s half-dead with excitement and anticipation, heart’s gonna give any moment with all the anxiety and like, pent-up existential dread.”

Peter snorts, this time, bumping his shoulder into Harley’s. Harley grins at him and rolls his eyes. Peter’s never known anybody who can fit as much into an eye roll as Harley Keener. He grins back boldly. _Tony’s_ sure that Harley has good grades, and that’s good enough for Peter.

“He looks half-dead,” agrees Bucky with his own eye roll. _Oh, so that’s where Harley got it_ , thinks Peter.

“I’m not half dead,” Harley protests in a chuckling tone. “I’m just-” he looks up from his feet and seems to gather his courage, saying in an anguished tone and a quick flurry of words, “I did my best, Bucky, and I don’t- if some dumb teacher says it wasn’t good enough for them, then you’re gonna tell me I can’t go, and I _want_ to go, Buck-”

“Do _you_ tell _me_ what’s going to happen around here?” asks Bucky in an incredulous tone, putting a hand on Harley’s back and pushing the teen in front of him, to the stairs. “Steven Grant Rogers,” he bellows up the stairs. “Get that beautiful butt down here.”

“He can’t hear you in the studio,” laughs Harley, trying to shake off Bucky’s hand.

“He can hear me anywhere,” declares Bucky, using his single hand to steer Harley toward the log couches.

Peter startles when Tony puts a hand on his back and gives a quick push for Peter to follow them. 

“STEVEN,” bellows Bucky, making Peter jump. “I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME.”

Harley snorts and shakes his head, as Bucky shoves him down onto a thick-cushioned couch. “He can’t, though, this place is-”

There are footsteps on the stairs and Peter cranes his neck as Tony slides into a chair, immediately slouching into it and kicking his feet up onto the coffee table.

“What? What?” repeats Steve, once he hits the landing and can see them gathered there. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, grades’re in,” mutters Harley, as Bucky slides next to him on the couch and reaches over, pulling Harley tight to his side with one strong arm.

“Is that all?” teases Steve. “Well. Open the envelope, let’s see the damage.”

“ _I_ don’t have it,” yelps Harley, looking up at Steve with a shocked expression. “Y’all said I couldn’t go pick it up ever again, after last time!”

“I have it,” announces Tony, digging in his back pocket and producing a single sheet of paper, folded crisply and cleanly. He passes it to Bucky with a grin for Harley, who buries his face in his hands.

Bucky elbows Harley and shares an exasperated and fond glance with Steve before unfolding the paper and- _not reacting at all_. His eyes clearly read the contents, and as Harley looks up at him, he lifts the paper above his head for Steve to snatch it, his face so blank it must be _deliberate_. Peter bites his lip as he watches Harley’s face go from interested to pleading to angry, as Steve reads through the paper with that same non-reaction.

“Stark,” sighs Steve, finally, “you’re such a knucklehead.”

“What?!” yelps Harley, surging up and ripping the paper from Steve’s hand. His face furrows in confusion and then he crows a laugh, looking up at Tony with his eyes twinkling for the first time since they’d climbed down the loft together that morning. “Tony!” he laughs, disbelieving.

“What? It’s a valid negotiation tactic. They have something I want,” Tony replies, but his lips twitch into a broad grin at Harley’s obvious delight.

“So where _are_ his grades?” asks Bucky, “and am I gonna throttle him when I see them?”

Peter’s eyes fly from face to face, until Harley takes pity on him and tosses him the paper with a snort. Tony says, “If I tell you his grades I lose all of my negotiating power and I’ll thank you not to try intimidation with me, _I sign your paycheck_. Or, well, someone does. Someone who works for me.”

“You haven’t paid me one single dime,” begins Bucky, but Peter stops listening, re-reading the note in disbelief.

 _You’re probably thinking, “Wait, where are the letters? Where’s the cumulative GPA?”_ Peter read. _Here is a list of my demands: 1) You let the boys pack out with me in the next hour 2) You don’t bitch about it, you know Harley’s brilliant 3) Cookies_

Peter looks up from the paper at Tony, who grins cockily at him before nodding at Bucky, who still has one arm wrapped around Harley. Bucky cranes his head back to look up at Steve, who crosses his arms, a small smile tugging at his lips. He shakes his head as Peter passes the paper back to Harley, and asks plaintively, “So, um…?”

“Oh, he’s already won, and he knows it. Flattering Bucky’s cookies gets him his way almost every time,” sighs Steve in what’s obviously mock pity. Tony’s grin, when Peter checks it, is so broad it must hurt the man’s cheeks.

Bucky smiles at Peter’s confusion and tugs Harley tighter. Harley squirms and yelps as Bucky holds him fast, his muscles bulging with the effort of trapping Harley to his side as he grunts, “Actually, it’s the fact that he’s gonna take you far from here for two days, Half-pint, far from here and then I’ll be able to do all kinda things to Ste-” 

“Okay, then!” interjects Steve brightly, clapping his hands. “Let’s get you on the trails. Harley, go upstairs with Peter, grab your clothes, deodorant, toothbrushes. Use the list, Harley. Bucky, _let him go.”_

“Never!” declares Bucky, laughing as Harley gets free enough to elbow him in the chest. Harley begins to laugh, too, confounding his clear intentions to struggle against the hold. “Bucky!” he whines in between attempts to escape and bursts of laughter. “Bucky, c’mon, Peter’ll- he’ll pack three pairs of underwear and no socks, lemme go help him!”

“Oh, well, if we’re helping _Peter_ , I suppose I can,” sighs Bucky deeply, releasing Harley reluctantly.

Peter scrambles to his feet as Harley lays half-on-top of Bucky, catching his breath and grinning dazedly before bounding to his feet and grabbing Peter by the arm. “C’mon, Peter,” he says happily. “If this is a Tony jailbreak, he won’t wait all day.”

“Damn right,” agrees Tony, the smile on his face hard for Peter to look directly at as Harley hauls him by the arm to the stairs.

“Language,” say Bucky and Steve in unison, before all three men snort at each other in amusement.

~~~

“Did you pack your-” begins Steve, a half-hour later. 

“STEVE,” huffs Harley. “You gave us the checklist, the actual written checklist, and we have shown you that we checked _everything on the list_. Please. Please stop.”

Peter peers at Steve and asks, “What? What do you think I’ll need?”

Steve snorts and shakes his head, as if conceding Harley’s point. “You’ll have Tony Stark and Karen- what else could you possibly need, Peter?”

“I don’t know, is there- I’ve never done this?” mutters Peter nervously.

“You’ll be fine,” reassures Bucky bluntly, checking the girth and cinch and patting Karen with a confident hand. “You do good work, kid. Nice balance on the saddlebags, hardly had to move anything.”

Peter ducks his head, still feeling the twitches of unsettled nervousness.

“Hey, it’s all little kiddie trails, Scott down at the X-Mansion takes the under-ten up those routes every summer lots of times,” Bucky tells him, with a teasing smile. “You’ll be beating the rush, and we haven’t had a broken bone in anyone over 14 in the last few years. Nice, easy route, looks like the weather’s gonna hold, couldn’t ask for a better set of trailpartners. You go have some fun, Peter.”

“Listen to Tony,” scolds Steve, and Peter’s head whips around in time to catch the man actually shaking a finger threateningly at Harley. He nods at Peter and says sternly, “You, too,” and Peter feels a warm glow deep within his chest. 

“Yes, Steve,” he says quietly, as Bucky snorts, “Yeah, well. Tony can make sure they hear whatever they need to, so I’m not losing any sleep over it. How _is_ your ass today, Half-pint?”

“Language,” mutters Harley, giving Bucky a black glare from where he’s tying the last of the small provisions to Tantrum.

“You safe to ride?” asks Bucky with a, slow, warning tone.

“I’ve ridden with way worse,” sneers Harley.

“I’ll make you drop your drawers right here, so help me God, _answer the question_ ,” thunders Bucky in a tight, tense voice.

Harley looks up at him, and Peter can tell he’s spooked. “I- I’d say, Bucky, I promise, I’d say if I wasn’t good to ride, I would-”

“Not doing that again, are we?” asks Bucky, and Peter can tell there’s stories behind the question that he doesn’t know, and he can kind of guess the shape of them. He winces for Harley’s stubborn pride.

“No, sir,” says Harley firmly. “No, sir, I’d say something. I really would, Buck, I promise. He just gave me a reminder not to fu-mess with guns, and to not let Johnny- _anybody_ \- mess with guns, either, I promise.”

 _That_ story, Peter knows. Clint had come for supper last night, some chicken and rice thing that tasted like actual heaven, and then left with a hand on Harley’s shoulder, pushing him out the door ahead of Clint, Harley hissing and spitting that he didn’t _need_ a reminder, he had a real _good_ memory for Johnny’s pale face and trembling body.

Peter's kissed the welts of the switchmarks in bed that night, in fact, as Harley’d mumbled that his only consolation was that it was a far easier punishment than the one Bobby'd been taking all week, which made Peter’s heart hammer, because the welts looked nasty enough to _him_.

“Harley,” Peter had whispered fearfully, “I don’t- I don’t _want_ a switch.”

“Oh, sure, no one _wants_ a thrashin’,” Harley had mumbled, burying his head in his arms again as Peter’s fingers ghosted more lotion over his thighs and butt. “And honest, you can mostly avoid one by not being a flaming idiot.”

Peter had kissed his hip and murmured, “You’re not an idiot.”

“Well, don’t be friends with one, either,” Harley had muttered, twisting to look back at him. “Hey, get up here and kiss my _face_ , darlin’. My _face_ needs attention, too.”

And then the moment had dissolved into soft, secretive making out, and a set of furtive handjobs that make Peter’s cheeks blush, in the cool afternoon air.

“Well, good, you deserve it,” grunts Bucky. But he brings up a big hand and tousles it through Harley’s hair, drawing him in for a kiss on his wild locks. “Clint’s a big ol’ meanie, and yer butt’ll heal.”

“I know, so stop worrying about it,” huffs Harley, his eyes twinkling up at Bucky again. Peter can’t get over how much Harley doesn’t seem to mind Bucky’s growling and gruffness, how much he actively seems to seek out that rough attention. Peter much prefers the gentle side of both of the couple.

Peter much prefers the gentle side of everyone, actually, he concedes, shooting Harley in Bucky’s arms another glance as the sound of hooves on dirt begins at the edge of his hearing.

“You ready?” asks Steve.

Peter nods and then blows out a breath, rolling his eyes. It’s a campout. They’ll all be fine. It’s a kiddie trail.

“Are you ready yet?” shouts the ringing voice of Tony.

“As they’ll ever be,” bellows Bucky. “Well, get on,” he says to Peter, as Harley does that amazing jumping-flowing motion up into Tantrum’s saddle.

Peter’s own motion is much less fluid, but it’s getting better, he acknowledges with satisfaction. Karen’s ears haven’t gone back all week, as a matter of fact. He pats her withers and gathers her reins eagerly as Tony rounds the Tower, grinning. “You boys ready?” he asks. “Harley, you got on your thermals?”

Harley snorts and then sneers, “And I got two sets, just in case we end up in a river again.”

“Awww, now, not on the kiddie trail,” protests Tony, his eyes alight. He looks- Peter drops his gaze down to Karen’s withers- he looks really good, even in a thick canvas jacket, with flannel peeking out at his throat. Peter shifts in his own flannel-lined jeans and long underwear, the weight of one of Harley’s old canvas jackets a comforting hug at all times. “You do that list, Steve?”

“Every time,” says Steve brightly. 

“Well, then, we’re good, let’s go,” says Tony with delight. “Don’t you cripple Steve this weekend,” he warns Bucky. 

“And stay out of the loft, you weirdos,” adds Harley with a laugh, clicking to Tantrum and shifting his weight so Tantrum springs forward before Bucky can smack at his leg. “Y’got plenty of places all over the house that ain’t _mine_.”

“Like we’d want the reminder of your ugly mug,” growls Bucky playfully, eyes flashing with good humor. “Go away. Get lost, don’t come home.”

“See you on Sunday,” says Steve firmly. “I’ll miss you both. Have fun!”

“See you on Sunday,” repeats Peter. He feels reluctant, suddenly, reluctant and shy and nervous, even though he’s been looking forward to the excitement of the campout all week.

“Have fun,” Bucky tells him- and just him, Peter notes, thrilled by the man’s full attention. Peter gives the pornocowboy a trembling smile in return, trying not to show how much that attention _means_ and probably failing miserably.

And then Tony smiles at Peter and nods his head, for Peter to follow Harley, and within a few minutes they’re at the gates, already. Harley’s already dismounting and opening the gates, guiding Tantrum through and smiling brightly up at Peter as he passes. Peter pauses on the other side, because there are six distinct paths through the tall grass there, and he’s not sure which way to turn Karen’s head.

The gate creaks closed behind him, and he turns to watch Harley latch it and spring back up onto Tantrum. _Well. That’s done, then. No turning back._ Peter watches Harley gather up Tantrum and smile at Tony before taking them on the middle left-sided path “That's the way, Peter. See how it’s just a little wider than the others? Come summer, it’ll be trampled by all the kiddie riders, wide and flat, and you’ll be able to spot it from outer space. None of ‘em can stick to a small path, like the mountain trail.”

“Oh,” said Peter, because he doesn’t really have anything to say to that information.

“I bet we can hit the hot springs yet today,” Harley says excitedly. “Tony, don’t you think, make camp, go for a dip?”

“Sure, Half-pint. Easy,” says Tony, as if he’s only half-listening. Peter glances back at the man and is shocked that he has his eyes closed- his eyes closed and his head tilted, just a little, shoulders back. He looks- _relaxed_. His body moves with Suffragette in the same easy way it had moved with Sabretooth, as if he and the horse are one being, as if it’s almost easier than walking, to be atop the bay.

Peter looks ahead at Harley’s back and shrugs his shoulders. If Tony gets lost, it’s his own fault. Although he probably won’t. Unlike Peter, the man had a lifetime of packing out.

“You are gonna love it,” Harley promises Peter again. He’d been promising and promising about the hot springs all week, and Peter feels a small thrill of excitement as the afternoon sun begins to fight back the clouds and the air around them warms a little.

“Okay, Harley,” Peter replies easily.

“You pack swimsuits?” asks Tony, in that same half-here, half-there tone of voice.

“Naw, no need to add weight and bulk, with just us,” says Harley, as Peter realizes with a shock that he _hadn’t_ and that it might have been an _option_.

Tony makes a little noise of agreement, as Harley begins to chatter about all the times something has gone wrong on a campout, and why _this time_ , none of those things is going to happen. Tony being along figures prominently in the “reasons why it won’t happen” list and Peter can’t hide his grin at Harley’s obvious hero worship. The teen is is obvious about his fanboy crush on Tony and it’s easy to see why the older man would want to be around all that enthusiasm. 

The crisp air and the bright sun feel great on Peter’s face, and soon all three men have slipped off their canvas jackets to drape them across their laps. Karen falls behind regularly, even at the placid, ambling pace Tony and Harley set, and so they begin to fall into a rhythm where Peter straggles behind in his own thoughts and the two men ahead pause briefly, Harley babbling excitedly the whole time, to let him catch up. On the fifth time, Tony smiles at Peter, a warm, open thing, and comments, “Harley says he’s got Logan’s permission to teach you some leatherworking on Monday, but I should be back in the workshop, you want a two-fer in the morning?”

“A what?” asks Peter, cocking his head.

“Want to go with me to Tony’s workshop and then hit up Logan’s?” asks Harley eagerly. “I mean, I’d spend all day in the workshop, but you’ll like having customized gear, it’ll make you stand out from Xavier’s kids, you’ll see, they’re the _worst_ nuisances all summer and you don’t want anyone to be confused about who to call if you, uh-” he glances at Tony, who grins and finishes, “-get into a little trouble, is what Harley is avoiding saying. Although you don’t look like the type, do you?”

“The type?” says Peter, followed by, “Yeah, I’m not- not doing anything else. Just chores?”

“Great!” says Harley, clicking for Tantrum to dive forward on the trail, leaving Peter momentarily alone with Tony as they continue to ride at the slower pace of Karen.

Tony, who looks so good in a blue flannel shirt, impossibly good, his eyes twinkling as if he notices Peter noticing that fact. _Don’t blush_ , Peter pleads with himself. _Please, don’t blush._

“The type to go seeking out trouble,” confides Tony, confusing Peter for a second. 

“Oh, yeah, uh, I- um, I _don’t_ ,” says Peter.

“That’s not _quite_ the story I had from Bucky,” murmurs Tony, quirking a brow and a smirk at Peter when Peter looks up at him.

too late to plead with himself about the blush. It rises to his cheeks as he stares straight ahead at Karen’s ears. “I, um,” he says intelligently, cursing himself, his heart beginning to race.

“Harley’s the type,” chuckles Tony beside him, shaking his head. “No, you seem like a guy who wants some hands-on attention from authority figures, but I bet-”

“Hey, what’s the dilly dally?” laughs Harley from up ahead.

“Talking things out,” shouts Tony, his voice full of grin.

“OooooOooooh,” calls back Harley, making Peter roll his eyes. “Well, I’ll just ride ahead, let you two- talk all that out.”

 _No, no, please, don’t leave me alone with Tony_ , Peter begs mentally, his eyes following Harley on Tantrum until the man and horse disappear behind trees in a bend in the path. He hunches his shoulders and waits for the awkward line of questions that Steve and Bucky and Tony all seem to think are _normal_.

“You like New York?” Tony asks into the silence, startling Peter.

“Yes?” replies Peter, before shaking his head and snorting. “I mean, yes. Yes, I like New York. Although-” he pauses, and looks around, feels Karen underneath him and the warm sun hitting his slightly-chilled skin, all the birds shrieking and singing, the squirrels chattering in every tree, the hints of green in all the gray and brown, “-although this is nice, too,” he concedes.

“I liked New York when I was younger, just out of college,” Tony tells him seriously. “I liked the hustle and bustle, the way I could throw money and make friends. There’s a place there for everyone- you can always find someone who knows what you want to know, you know?”

Peter nods, his heart lifting. “Yeah, and, like, there’s always something to _do_.”

“Yup, always excitement, flashing lights,” agrees Tony, but then he looks around at the scrubby forest that has slowly enveloped them and frowns slightly.

“What- did you mean, that I’m, uh, that I want-” stammers Peter, his heart hammering. _Wait, what?_ he shrieks at himself. _We’d moved_ away _from that line of questioning! What are you doing?!_

“Well, you signed the contract,” teases Tony gently. “So I know you know what you want, and what you want is hands-on correction. Is that just from Steve and Bucky, or are you looking for a Harley arrangement?”

“What happened to Bobby Drake all week?” asks Peter in a rush, surprising himself. “I saw Harley- Clint- last night- and he said what Bobby Drake got was _worse_.”

Tony chuckles. “Yeah, Harley would think that, wouldn’t he? Bobby Drake lives at the X-Mansion, Peter. He’s been grounded to his rooms and had private one-on-one tutoring in safety and common sense and first aid, and I believe Xavier made him, uh, think very hard about all the things that could have gone wrong, stealing a gun he knew he shouldn’t touch and giving it to his friends. So he had to think very hard about all the things that could have gone wrong, and I think it’s given him a few, um, nightmares.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Harley- Harley has had enough nightmare nights, and he doesn’t do well confined in one place.” They ride for a minute more and then Tony adds quietly, “I know which one I’d pick, every time, out of those options, too.”

“Shouldn’t he- I mean, if that’s the one that’s _worse_ ,” says Peter doubtfully, shrugging his shoulders.

“Do you see Harley making the same mistake twice?” asks Tony lightly. “Do you think he hasn’t learned his lesson? Did Clint somehow not give him a deterrent for the future? You think they didn’t _talk_ while they were out giving him the hidin’ he went seeking?”

“I just-” says Peter, thinking of the lash marks on Harley’s ass and then falling silent, conflicted.

“Harley wants what he wants,” says Tony. “He worked that out very quickly, after that first time with Bucky and Steve. And you want the same thing, and if you _don’t_ want it, you just have to say so and we’ll go rip up that addendum.”

“I never signed an addendum,” sighs Peter.

“Metaphorical,” waves away Tony, “and not the point.” He looks over at Peter until Peter looks up at him, hunching his shoulders. “If you don’t want a switching, follow the rules. If you don’t _want_ to be paddled or belted or even spanked, use your brain. Harley seems dead set on having a red ass at least once a week, but you don’t have to use him as a model for your arrangement with Steve and Bucky.”

Peter thinks about that while they ride up a hill, Harley already over it, and then says quietly, “What would happen out- um, out here, if I-”

Tony seems to follow his trailing voice, and trailing thoughts, easily. He grins, looking straight ahead, and says, “Nothing you didn’t want. Are you asking for the Tony Stark addition to that addendum?”

Peter thinks about that- _nothing you didn’t want_ \- and takes a deep breath, sighing out, “Yes? Please?”

“Be still my heart,” teases Tony. Peter’s face flames up and he shifts, Karen sensing his new tension and bouncing forward in a quickstep and then hesitating, uncertain, her ears twitching. “Hey, now,” says Tony, softer, moving closer, holding Suffragette still beside them. “Look up, Peter.”

Peter takes another deep breath and then lifts his gaze to Tony’s face.

Tony’s eyes are kind, if crinkled with good humor, his smile inviting Peter into the joke. “I’m an asshole, everyone’ll tell you that, Peter. Everyone’ll tell you I don’t joke when I should and I’m evasive as fuck and I’m sure you can ask Bucky or Steve for the list, they’ll be happy to induct you. But I’m not unfair, Peter, and you can check with Harley on that. I won’t beat you, or abuse you. I don’t mind hands-on, but I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve taken a switch to Harley and he _likes_ the rougher side of things, Peter. He _pushes_ to get it, and settles when he has it. But he’s also got at least 3 inches on you and about fifteen pounds, I don’t think I’ll confuse you two. You don’t have to be Harley, or take what we do with Harley as your model. You’re building your own thing, separate from his.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” stammers Peter, before gushing out, “I don’t- I don’t know- I mean, I want- God, it’s- I’m so _weird._ ”

“Not weird at all, I promise you. I mean it, Peter Parker, people want what they want, and you’re not hurting anybody, here,” Tony assures him, his voice a low rumble between them in the quiet of the woods. He grins at Peter and adds, “In fact, whenever you need it, _we’ll_ be hurting _you_.”

“Right,” breathed Peter. “And that’s-that’s not weird. To want that.”

“Maybe a little rare, but, Peter, you want what you want,” Tony tells him, shrugging his shoulders and clicking his tongue in the way that everyone here has, Peter’s body responding and nudging Karen forward with his knees and hips to walk again.

“Steve and Bucky wouldn’t give me rules,” Peter says in an undertone.

“Hm?” asks Tony. “Well, that sucks. I’ll give you rules, if you want ‘em.”

“I do,” states Peter, his heart racing just a bit.

“Keep yourself and others safe,” says Tony slowly, after a long minute for thought. “And I don’t mean from accidents, I mean, _don’t do things that you know are unsafe._ Don’t- don’t climb on top of the stables, or grab a fucking elephant gun to shoot out a lock on a shed you know you shouldn’t go inside.” They ride for another long moment while Tony obviously thinks and Peter thinks about the rule, conceding that it makes sense, before Tony continues, “Don’t make trouble for other people- don’t start fights or tell people things that you know aren’t true, don’t get in a habit of avoiding or even forgetting to do things that make life harder for people. I mean, I guess a better way to say it would be to try to be _kind_ , all right? Be kind, be safe, and be responsible. Does that sound fair?”

 _It sounds like an afterschool special on good character_ , Peter thinks. Out loud, he replies, “And- and if I, um, I am unsafe, or-” he can’t imagine being _unkind_ , he realizes, and he can’t even say the word _irresponsible_ without feeling a low flush of shame deep in his gut, coiled and ready to strike him.

Tony takes advantage of his pause. “Let the punishment fit the crime,” he chuckles, as they hit the peak of the trail and spot Harley waiting in a clearing at the bottom of the hill. “I won’t abuse you, Peter,” he adds, lowly. “And you can check with Harley on that. What we do, we do _together_ , or not at all. Harley may howl and protest that he doesn’t need it all the way to the chopping block, but if you ever catch how the conversation goes once he’s ready to talk, it’s far from him saying _no, no, stop, stop._ ”

Peter thinks about Harley in the bathroom after the cookout, saying seriously, _But, like, I mean, Peter, I don’t- God, can’t believe I’m saying this, don’t you tell anyone- I don’t mind it? Somehow?_ and nods. He thinks about how he’d _pushed_ with Bucky and Steve and how good it had felt when they did exactly what they said they’d do. He slots another glance over at Tony and says firmly, “Okay. I can- I can follow those rules or- um. Take my punishment.”

“Good boy,” praises Tony, and Peter slots another glance at him, shocked at how those words sing through him, releasing the heavy bands around his chest. Tony’s eyes are on Harley, down the hill, slightly narrowed, the ever-present Stetson shading his eyes and cheeks. His grip on the reins is light and casual, his body relaxed and loose as Suffragette picks her way down the dirt trail. The blue of his flannel shirt is soft and worn and thick, and Peter’s been held tight by so many flannel-clad arms and chests in the last weeks that he knows the slight fuzziness to the edges of the bands of color means it’s probably as soft as it looks. _Stiff breezes_ , he warns himself, and looks away, off to the other side, because if he looks straight ahead right now, he knows he’ll stare at Harley in red flannel and that won’t be any easier.

“You two get your kumbayayahs out?” chortles Harley, as they near him at the bottom. “Tantrum’s gonna throw shoes if y’all don’t get the lead out.”

“Tantrum, or Harley?” laughs Tony back at him. “Neither one of you has any patience.”

“And thank God you’re not part of the campaign to beat some into me,” Harley tosses back, grinning.

“No, I have some sympathy for impatience,” agrees Tony, smiling over at Peter. “It was killing me, waiting for today all week.”

“Well, good, I missed this,” Harley says, glancing all around. “Packing out in general but Steve and Bucky never want to go to the hot springs anymore and I don’t know why. They _usedta_ love it.”

Peter adjusts his seat on Karen uncomfortably, trying to be discreet, but Harley catches it anyway and grins at him. “Oh, before you, Peter. Well before you. Tony’s about the only one who _has_ taken me to the hot springs, in the last year. That’s why it’s not fair when you leave!” he scolds Tony.

“You know why I have to,” Tony tells Harley, his shoulders tightening. “I don’t _chose_ to leave, Harley.”

“Oh, I know,” grunts Harley, his own shoulders hunching. “I know, and it’s good or whatever, but I don’t have to like it. It’s not good for _me_.”

Peter wants to protest, because Tony looks so sad and guilty, his jaw clenching and his hands tight on the reins again, but he doesn’t know enough to know _what_ to protest, how to soothe things between the men. “I’ve never been to hot springs,” he says, instead, hoping it’ll help turn the conversation.

“You’re going to love them,” Harley declares, his whole body unfolding from its tension-tight clench almost as soon as the words leave his mouth. “They’re the whole reason Mr. Stark- that’s Tony’s grandpa- decided to build the main house where he did. I mean, the land’s _huge_ , Peter, he could have built it _anywhere_. But he built where he did because there’s the river and the hot springs ain’t too far and the mountain was right there, I mean, it’s two days by horse, but it’s _there_ , and-”

“Granddad was smart,” agrees Tony, his eyes twinkling again. “But I think that call was more Grandma. She was Nordic, Peter, and used to having hot springs accessible, and resented that the New World Granddad dragged her to didn’t offer her the baths she was used to.”

“Main house has a huge lodgehouse sauna,” Harley adds excitedly. “We should do that, too, sometime, Tony!”

“Sure,” agrees Tony easily. “No reason not to. How’s your ass, Harley?”

“I’m learning all kinds of lessons today,” Harley replies slowly, shaking his head and looking up at Tony ruefully. “I told Clint I had already learned ‘em but he said learning ‘em and remembering ‘em were two different things.”

“They do seem to be, with you,” teases Tony, tilting his head and giving Harley a wicked-looking grin.

“I ain’t climbed any roofs,” retorts Harley.

“Yeah, since that reminder I gave you, on top of the lesson Steve taught,” teases Tony again, mock serious, the wicked grin blooming into a full smile.

Peter looks between them, the grinning man and the shame-faced Harley, and swallows down a spark of heat, ripping his gaze away to stare at the spindly trees just beginning to burst with green and scrub brush around them. _Stiff breezes, I swear to God this place is just full of them_ , he thinks a little pitifully.

“Well, as long as you’re good to ride,” Tony says sternly.

“I’d say! I’d say!” yelps Harley.

“Harley here, when he was a lot younger, let me take him on a three hour pack out after Bucky’d switched him,” growls Tony, “and he _didn’t_ say when he started _not_ being able to handle it.”

“He’d switched me for running off and climbing a tree and then falling out of the tree and knocking myself brainless,” Harley tells Peter with complete unselfconsciousness. “It wasn’t my _ass_ that was the problem.”

“And so then we had to make a little rule, because sometimes I don’t hear all the gossip, that he’s got to _say_ when he’s not good to ride,” Tony says sternly, followed by, “and that would fall firmly under ‘be safe’ for _you_ , Peter.”

“Oh, no, did he explain his rules?” moaned Harley, rolling his eyes and giving a shake that makes Tantrum side step twice before Harley stops goofing around. “Is that what you two were doing? Ehhh, go on back, I’ll go ahead. I thought y’all were _bonding_ or something, not- _gross_ , Tony. Can’t you just tell him to _be smart_ and call it good?”

“Peter asked for rules,” Tony tells him firmly.

“Oh, ew, Peter,” laughs Harley, his eyes twinkling at Peter and warming him up with their teasing light. “I should’ve known it, though, you’re so sweet. Of course you’d want _rules_.” The teasing is gentle and light, inviting and not- not trying to embarrass Peter, although the effect is the same, as his cheeks flush. No one Peter’s ever kissed has ever called him _sweet_ before, and the word coming from Harley makes Peter’s breath quicken, his eyes dropping from Harley’s to look at Karen’s mane. “I just- like to know where I stand,” he mumbles.

“Damn teachers’ pets,” teases Harley, his voice warm with admiration instead of ridicule. “They’re like preacher’s sons, ain’t they?”

Aunt May had loved that song, Peter remembered with a feeling of shock. He remembered her humming it to herself in the kitchen, bursting into, “was the son of a preacher man, yes he was, yes he wa-as-” and then returning to humming, Uncle Ben rolling his eyes at Peter and putting a finger to his lips with a fond smile. If either one of them tried to join in or gave any indication that they’d noticed, she'd clam up, flustered, but if they just sat in the other room and listened, she’d sing to herself while she baked or cleaned and suddenly, Peter’s eyes fill with tears. He _misses_ that, misses the little things like that, things that Tony and Harley _don’t know_ , that no one but he and Ben in the whole world knew. All the little details, all the things- the stuff about May that only they knew, together.

He rides just behind the two other men, as they discuss the merits of Tony’s rules and teacher’s pets and whether or not Harley needs a refresher on any of the other rules with a reminder of _be safe_ still smarting his ass that afternoon. He trails just behind them, feeling like a traitor in all directions- a traitor to Ben for not thinking about him all the time, for getting excited to go camping with people Ben never knew; a traitor to Tony and Harley for wanting to turn Karen towards New York and ride until he’s standing back in that warm kitchen from his memory.

But, of course, he can’t do that.

May’s at the Keeners’ house while their house is being sold.

The kitchen isn’t warm anymore.

Peter gives Tony a fake smile when Tony glances back to check on him and Tony’s face grows serious, his seat changing enough that Suffragette tosses her head and hesitates, allowing Peter to catch up. Peter hunches his shoulders as Karen paces forward placidly, bringing him up alongside Tony.

“You okay?” asks Tony quietly.

“Yeah, just- just, you know, my uncle,” offers Peter, hoping that if he avoids eye contact, he’ll cut the conversation off before it has a chance to grow.

Tony nods. “Yeah,” he says, a world of understanding in the syllable. “I still- my dad and mom, you know. You know what my friend Rhodey once told me?”

“What?” asks Peter, curious despite the dull lump of dread that fills his chest.

“It’s okay. You grieve on _their_ timetable. You’re not ruining anything,” recites Tony, squinting ahead of them for a long moment before saying, “It’s not great, as far as help goes, but, you don’t have to hide it. Not around here. Everyone here _gets_ it, Peter.”

“Well, I mean, I don’t _get_ it,” interrupts Harley, just ahead of them and clearly within earshot even if he doesn’t turn around. “I ain’t lost anyone, but my dad _did_ run off, and that’s kinda the same, Peter. Although it wasn’t actually much of a loss, but-”

“Nobody here is a judgy bastard,” corrects Tony, rolling his eyes.

“You are,” hoots Harley, turning with a grin.

“Fair,” concedes Tony. “But I have soft spots, and this is one of them.”

It seems to end the conversation, as a sly grin slides across Harley’s face and he looks between the two of them, Peter and Tony, and then Harley turns the conversation to Peter’s prior camping experiences and more stories of disaster campouts.

~~~

There’s a shed at the base camp, and Harley unlocks it easily, pulling out dark green canvas blobs and saying, “Two tents, Tony?”

“Yeah, I don’t wanna throw up three,” sighs Tony, before returning to showing Peter how to picket Karen safely with the other two horses.

The tents are small and low to the ground, and Harley puts them up efficiently, with hands that clearly know what they’re doing. He walks to the back of the shed and shouts, “Plenty of wood, we won’t need to chop more.”

“That’s the advantage of coming early in the season,” Tony tells Peter with a grin. “Everyone’s out doing long fence work or still stuck at the Home Farm so we’ve got a fully stocked shed and can just relax.”

“Okay, let’s toss our gear,” says Harley eagerly, “and hit the hot springs before dinner, please, Tony? Please?”

“Sure, Half-pint,” agrees Tony easily, standing and stretching. “I could use a soak, too.”

Peter helps haul the gear to the tents, Harley unrolling his sleeping bag and then giving Peter a sharp look, unzipping his bag fully and laying it flat on the floor of the tent. He glances across the huge fire pit and clearing at Tony’s tent and then reaches for Peter’s sleeping bag, unzipping it in silence and carefully arranging it over his. He grabs for the endpoint of the zippers and slides the zipper along one half while Peter realizes what the action means. They’ll- they’ll share a sleeping bag, tonight, then. They’ll- tonight, Tony’ll be across the clearing in his own tent and Harley and Peter will- 

Peter can’t breathe, as he thinks about that. It seems like such a big step, from sleeping on the beds in the loft side by side to sharing a bed on this campout. It seems huge, but when Harley looks over at him, eyes questioning, he nods and feels his face split in a soft smile.

“Yeah, I thought you’d like that,” murmurs Harley softly, pulling Peter into the low tent with a quick wiggle of his fingers and kissing Peter’s cheek near silently, grinning at Peter’s sudden shattered breathing. “You’re so dang _sweet_ , Pete. I love how you-”

“I’m ready,” announces Tony, from somewhere outside, and they startle apart, grinning at each other because they weren’t _doing anything_ but it sure feels like- like maybe they were. Or maybe Harley’s grinning because Peter’s blushing, he has no idea, but he tells himself sternly to _chill out_ so Tony doesn’t notice anything’s up, and lets Harley scramble for the door first, yelping, “We’re ready, too!”

“Zip up the door, or you’re going to have uninvited guests, Peter,” says Tony absently, as Peter exits the tent. Peter fumbles with the zipper, grateful for one more thing to concentrate on before he has to face the man. “Thanks for picking the primo tents, Half-pint. I hate sleeping in the ones with the ties.”

“I know,” chuckles Harley. “Everyone does.”

“Well, hot springs?” asks Tony, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Hot springs,” declares Harley, as Peter nods eagerly.

~~~

The path winds up the rocky hill steeply, and Peter almost gasps as they reach a plateau and he can suddenly see for miles. He turns around, eyes searching, and looks over the small, patchy, scrubby forest and _there it is!_ the Tower on the hill, so small at this distance it’s overpowered by the sheer amount of land around it. To the left of the A-framed house is the river that winds across the gently rolling plain, nothing but brown dirt and short brown bushes dotted here and there.

Harley slings an arm around his neck and says, “Yeah, city boy, tell me about them tall skyscrapers you got back home, huh?”

“I’ve been coming here my whole life, Harley,” says Tony slowly, “and I still have to stop and look.”

“I bet it’s easier now that Steve built the house,” Harley tells him smugly.

“In some ways,” agrees Tony, tilting his head, knocking the Stetson back and scrubbing a hand through his hair. “In some ways, it just reminds me how everything changes.”

“Eh, you want something that never changes,” argues Harley, “just turn and look the other direction.” He turns Peter by the shoulders and points to the mountains in the distance, gray with white streaks of what must still be snow, solid and unchanging and so far away they, too, look small. Peter’s heart is pounding and he has no idea why, but he’s filled with the sudden urge to yell and shout and scream.

“Hot springs,” prods Tony after a long moment during which all three men just stand and stare at the unmoving and unmoveable monuments in the distance.

Harley hauls Peter along by an arm slung around his neck, playful and happy and handsy, with Tony striding in front of them. Peter can’t help but smile back, with his heart still thrumming and that feeling of intangible excitement buzzing around his body. The trail winds, and twists, through great jagged gray boulders, until suddenly it stops at a wooden platform and a small clearing. 

“Hang your clothes on the tree,” directs Harley happily, nodding at the bare skeleton of a tree shooting up beside the platform. “‘s tradition, so folks know you’re up here. You can see it from the camp,” he explains, “if you know where to look.”

Both Harley and Tony start toeing off their boots, hand flying to unbutton their shirts. After hesitating a moment longer, Peter joins them, looking into the clear water of the natural pool.

“This’n’s cooler’n that’n,” Harley tells him, nodding at another gray boulder. “You can’t see it, it’s, like, I’ll show it to you, but y’start out here, see if you think you can take it hotter. It’s a smaller spring and it’s not, like, maintained as well as this one because most people don’t like it.”

“Most people don’t enjoy having their skin boiled off,” agrees Tony in a mocking tone as he slides his undershirt off and hangs it from a broken tree limb . “Plus, someone has to stay here to keep an eye on the camp.”

“Horses’re fine, they know base camp as well as they know their own paddock,” complains Harley, shucking his pants and tossing them over a thick branch to dangle. “You could come with me, if Peter doesn’t want to.”

“I might want to,” offers Peter, eyeing up the empty and mostly-broken branches of the dead tree before throwing his flannel shirt on one. “How hot is hot?”

“Oh, main pool’s at like, 100 degrees, usually,” says Harley offhandedly. “The hot one’s probably got five more on that. There’s a _really_ hot one probably a hundred feet from here, but that one’ll scald you and Steve swears one time he saw actual lava in it but, well… I doubt it.”

“Me too,” chuckles Tony. Peter glances over as the man shucks off his pants and boxers, his pale skin an expanse of marbled muscle. _Holy shit_ , thinks Peter, _it’s a hurricane_. It feels like that, too, realizing Tony is entirely unselfconscious as he tosses his boxers to drape on the tree and turns to follow Harley, both of them quickly sinking into the pool with a sigh.

Harley sits so he can face Peter, and he gives Peter a wicked grin, clearly aware of the state of the stiff breezes swirling in Peter’s head. He juts his chin up and his eyes flash up and down Peter’s body doing a lascivious inventory as Peter heels out of his boots awkwardly and begins to fumble with his pants. 

“God, missed this most of all,” sighs Tony, tipping his head back on a rock.

“Y’always grab the king’s spot,” grumbles Harley.

“‘s my Ranch,” Tony informs him grumpily, shifting a little as Peter hangs his pants and peels off his socks, hanging them carefully, as well. He tilts his head back and sighs. Out of the corner of Peter’s vision, Harley’s face cracks in a huge grin, looking up at Peter. Peter rolls his eyes and slides his own underwear off his hips, draping it on the tree and trying to tell his pounding heart and racing libido that this should be embarrassing and terrifying and not be _turning him on_ like this.

Harley’s twinkling eyes say otherwise, though, as Peter slips into the pool, which comes up to lap at his waist.

“They built these stone seats years ago,” Harley tells him, patting the stone next to him invitingly. _Yeah, no, that’s going to be way too close_ , thinks Peter firmly. He can just about imagine getting through this and enjoying it without self-combusting if he stays well out of arm’s reach of the other teen.

From Harley’s wicked grin, which flashes even wider as Peter chooses a seat mid-way between Tony and Harley, he knows exactly why Peter chose that position, too.

The water is so clear, Peter can see the striations in the rock underneath it, each pebble and slab detailed and fascinating, the contrast between his own pale limbs and the rocks beneath him sharp. The water is so clear that he can easily see Harley’s body, too, as well as Tony’s, when he peeks. Tony’s head is tipped back on the rock shelf behind him and Harley is splayed out, half-curled and half-draped in his own seat.

“Some of ‘em were natural,” Tony says, and Peter blinks before remembering they were talking about the stone seats visible around the rim of the pool. “But yeah, I think Dad had the pressgang up here when he was younger and more... involved.”

“Glad it was before my time,” huffs Harley. “You’d’a had me hauling the big’uns, I know it.”

Tony’s lips twitch as he comments, “Well before your time, Half-pint, probably before mine, too. I’d have to ask Bucky. Or Steve.”

“Pfft,” says Harley, waving a hand to create a splashing wave of water that gets nowhere near Tony.

“You want a spanking for splashing, keep it up,” threatens Tony almost absently, nothing but his lips twitching.

“Please,” huffs Harley, rolling his eyes expressively. “You seen my ass? Ain’t lettin’ you or anyone near it for the next _week_ , my hand to God.”

Tony grins, then, and wiggles his shoulders, looking smug. “Good. Should be nice and relaxing, around the place. So shut up, and let me relax.”

Harley falls silent, smiling at Peter before tipping his head back on his own head rest.

There’s no way Peter’s closing his eyes, half-terrified at where his imagination will take him, with Tony on his left and Harley on his right and the warm water lapping at his skin. _No fucking way_ , he tells himself, playing idly with the pebbles on the pool floor with a single toe. 

The silence is broken only by the sound of animals scurrying in the scrubby woods beneath them, the horses occasionally whickering. Long minutes pass as the gentle heat of the water presses into Peter’s skin, lapping relaxation until he sits boneless, considering tipping his head back like the other men.

“Now, y’all want to go check out the hot one?” mumbles Harley, prying open one eye and grinning at Peter.

“No,” reiterates Tony, shifting against his rock seat. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Peter, wide eyed as Harley gives a huge grin and then slips under the water, swimming for a stroke or two before popping up in a burst of waves in the center of the pool.

“Dammit, Half-pint,” grumbles Tony, as the waves surge around his collar bone. 

“Not sorry,” laughs Harley. “You ain’t up to catching me for splashin’, anyway.”

“Leave,” orders Tony. “And take the quiet, good one with you.”

Peter’s cheeks flush as he looks up at Harley, Harley’s grin going wicked again as he collects one of Peter’s wrists on his way past, surging out of the small natural pool and twisting Peter around in the same motion. “C’mon, Peter,” he laughs. “Come try somethin’ a little hotter.”

Their footprints on the dirty stones of the cavern floor leave a dark wet trail behind them, liberally splattered with drips, as Harley leads him to a small natural crack in the surrounding ravine, small enough that the rocks brush against their shoulders. Peter tries to imagine Bucky or Steve- or Thor- moving along the passageway and has to picture them turning sideways and sidling. 

The passage is short but narrow and twisty, dumping them out in a much more sheltered pool, this one letting off steam in the cool spring air. “S’gonna be hot,” Harley warns Peter, grinning. 

Peter smiles back and tells the other teen, “I don’t mind a little heat.”

“Attaboy,” encourages Harley, his eyes twinkling. “Only a couple seats, but somebody built the stairs for this one, so you got someplace to set if you don’t want to go all the way in for a dip. Gets real deep on that end, so watch out, doesn’t look like a drop but there is one, ‘s a trick of the rocks and the light.”

“Okay,” breathes Peter.

Harley still holds his wrist, he notes, as Harley tugs him toward the pool.

“Hey,” whispers Harley, turning. “Before we step in.” 

Peter holds his breath as Harley leans in, lifting his other hand to cup Peter’s jaw and guide him into a soft and gentle kiss. “God, been wanting to do that for hours,” Harley complains quietly, before kissing him again, deepening it eagerly. “And then you did that sweet little striptease, ‘bout lost my mind watching you. Want to bring you up here some day, sneak out, maybe, lay you down, get you all worked up while I watch, fuck, Peter, I’d do you dirty right there beside the springs, and then let us slip into that water, hold you tight.”

“Harley,” breathes Peter, so turned on he aches in every bone and muscle, abruptly. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a hurricane?”

Harley chuckles, caressing Peter’s ass. “Darlin’, you want me to storm into your life all wet and wild, I’m willin’.” 

“Hot- hot springs first,” gasps Peter.

Harley chuckles and drops his hands, turning toward the pool and taking three steps. “This is gonna suck,” he announces, but he doesn’t hesitate as he slides under the water. Peter is a step behind him, hissing immediately at the warmth. Harley doesn’t match his hissing until the water hits his welts from the night before, and then he sidles a step or two before plunging forward. Peter puts a comforting hand tentatively on Harley’s shoulder blade, eyeing up the welts again and noticing how puffy they are. “Should you, uh, be getting those wet?” he asks Harley, intimidated.

“Oh, the marks?” laughs Harley lowly. “Yeah, no, a soak’s good for ‘em. They’ll look worse but Bucky had a look last night, nothing broke the skin too much, ain’t gonna get infected or anything. You can spread antibiotic on ‘em tonight, though,” he offers invitingly, turning with a grin to look up at Peter, still on the last step, the water lapping hotly against his upper thighs.

Harley’s eyes trace just as hotly, until Peter’s squirming and trying to brush past Harley. 

“Naw, sweetheart,” drawls Harley, shifting in the water to block Peter from taking the next step down into the heat of the pool. “God, here, come here,” he demands, pulling Peter along the last step until they’re next to the wall. “Sit down, here, and dangle them feet in the water,” he suggests in a forceful whisper, slanting Peter a glance from under his lashes. “And let me, uh, _fuck_ , Peter, been thinking about you since last night, wanna suck some, willya let me?”

Will he _let_ Harley suck him off?

“Yes,” agrees Peter, nodding his head eagerly and throwing himself onto the ledge, spreading his knees easily to allow Harley access.

“Steve and Bucky take off for a whole week, come September,” mutters Harley, glancing up at Peter as he bends, running his eager hands up and down Peter’s thighs. 

“What?” yelps Peter in a whisper. _What the fuck does that have to do with anything?_

Harley laps and teases at the head of Peter’s cock, playful and bold, looking up again to smile and say quietly, “They go wildin’- running all over the land, the two of them, and I know they done this- or something like this, anyway- right here, Peter.”

Peter thinks about it and swallows, thinks about the pornocowboy sitting Steve on a ledge just like this, dipping his head down and- “Ah!” he gasps, as Harley begins to suck up and down his length. 

“Be good for me, be quiet, don’t make Tony shout up here for ya,” growls Harley against Peter’s tip, before dipping his head and working his way up and down Peter’s length by degrees, his mouth hotter than the water that laps at Peter’s calves as Harley’s body shoves in closer and then eases back fast. 

To say Peter doesn’t last long is an understatement. 

To say he’s quiet is also a slight exaggeration, but there’s no shout from the other pool, yards away and separated by sheer rock. Maybe Tony doesn’t hear- or doesn’t notice.

Harley chokes and chuckles, lifting his head with sparkling eyes and wiping his mouth with the back of his loose fist. “Been wantin’ to do that to you since you showed up here,” he confesses, grinning at Peter’s shocked stare back at him. “This’s about my favorite place in the world, Peter,” he adds, his honest face open and vulnerable. “Thank you for lettin’ me introduce you.”

“Hell of an introduction,” huffs Peter breathlessly, grinning back at Harley before looking around. Harley pulls him off the ledge and into the water, arms straining to hoist Peter’s weight until Peter wraps his legs around Harley and lets Harley walk them deeper and deeper, the smooth rock bottom of the pool a contrast to the hundreds of small pebbles in the bigger one. “Harley,” Peter gasps, hissing as the water slides up their waists and then quickly to their chests, feeling dizzy and delighted and _hot_. His face is flushed, he knows, from the orgasm and the heat of the pool, and as he looks at Harley, he can see the other teen has sweat dripping from his hairline already. 

Peter reaches up a hand, hoping the water is helping Harley with his weight enough that it won’t unbalance him, and runs it along Harley’s hairline, brushing back the stray hairs that have begun to curl out in all directions. “Harley,” he says again, and he can feel the rumble of his voice in his chest like a purr, watch Harley’s lips curve up in a smile. 

“Darlin’?” asks Harley, and then he snakes his head out quickly and captures Peter’s lips in a kiss.

Harley walks until the water is lapping at their shoulders, kissing Peter eagerly the whole time before whispering huskily, “Sweet, y’r so _sweet_ , darlin’. God, what I ever did to deserve such a honeycake…”

“Harley,” says Peter, and tosses his head, hoping to clear it just a little, which doesn’t work. He clings to Harley, under the water, and laughs breathlessly when Harley grins and shifts him down so that Harley’s jutting dick slots between the globes of his ass. 

“Ain’t gonna raw you here, like this, I know enough to know water won’t make it good for ya,” mutters Harley against his neck, kissing and licking there, lapping at the flesh. “But you mind if I take a little of mine, sweet thing?”

“God, no, Harley, _please,”_ begs Peter, eyes wide, he knows. 

“Here, brace against the wall,” Harley orders quietly, and then Peter’s shoulders hit hard rock, rough and bumpy against his back, and he runs his hand along the edge, lifting some of his own weight back from Harley.

“That’s right,” soothes Harley. “Just like that, sweet thing.” His eyes are intent and bright on Peter’s, as he begins to rock forward, his cock sliding against Peter’s heat-sensitized skin in a way that makes them both gasp. Peter bites his lip and reminds himself to be quiet when Harley gives him a warning look and then glances at the entrance to the pool’s private ravine as if expecting Tony to appear any moment. 

When he looks back at Peter, his eyes blaze hotter than the pool water that reddens their skin, and he lifts his face to capture Peter’s mouth in another eager kiss, rubbing and rocking against Peter’s flesh. Peter grabs hard onto one of Harley’s shoulders and presses, and that’s all Harley needs, apparently, because he gives a strangled groan and his face twists like he’s in pain and then he gasps and rests his head on Peter’s chest, kissing the flesh there, just above the water, in between pants.

“Fuck, Peter,” laughs Harley, pulling away. He bats at the blobs of his semen, so easily visible in the water under the steam as they float against the dark browns and grays of the rocks. “Well, ain’t the worst the springs’ve ever had in ‘em, I’m sure,” he chuckles, clearly trying to break up the evidence, cheeks flushed with more than just heat and release, Peter would guess.

“You’ve thought about that a lot,” guesses Peter, a grin beginning to bloom on his face as he watches the other teen. “And you never-” 

Harley laughs and eyes Peter up as Peter slips back down into the water. “Never thought about that, no,” he admits, smiling a little. “Good thing the steam’s covering up the surface, I guess. Y’can only tell ‘cause you know what yer lookin’ for.”

Peter grins and kisses him, feeling giddy and lightheaded. “Harley Keener, you have _desecrated_ this holy water,” he chides Harley. “This sacred place, completely-”

“Aww, shut up,” laughs Harley, raising his hand and swamping Peter with a huge wave that buries him.

They play that way for a while, in the hot water, splashing and shoving and horsing around, until Tony shouts, “If you’re killing each other over there, I’m gonna make the winner drag the body out and explain it to Bucky!”

“Some deaths are worth dyin’,” shouts back Harley, which makes no sense, but sounds nice and bold, Peter admits. He gives Peter a piratical grin before kissing him and then attempting to shove him back underwater, a move that Peter has learned to be wary of and counters by clinging to Harley like a leech.

“About time to come out of the hottest water, anyway,” shouts up Tony. “Don’t need either one of you fainting on me!”

“Take _you_ outta the hot water, make _you_ faint,” teases Harley in an undertone with a leer, which makes Peter giggle for no reason, loving the way Harley turns the most nonsensical things into a threat or a challenge.

“We’ll be out,” Peter shouts back to Tony. He raises a brow at Harley, who grins and shoves him towards the steps.

The cool air feels impossibly cold as Peter half-flees and half-stumbles from Harley toward the other pool, feeling dizzy and lightheaded and lighthearted, too. When he turns the last sharp corner in the rocks and bursts into the larger clearing, he’s shocked again by how far he can see across the landscape, and by the picture Tony makes, head tilted back on the rocks of his hot spring. 

Peter flushes, although thank God his body doesn’t react, as he stares maybe a minute or two longer than he should, picking his way carefully along the rock path as he nears the soaking pool. Tony’s shaggy dark hair is splayed on the rock, like he’s tossed his head a couple of times before tipping it back again, soaking up the last of the sun’s rays, his muscular body draped and relaxed against the hard stone beneath him, floating just a bit in the water. It’s a stiff breeze, but Peter’s body is too wrung out to do more than memorize the lines and the look of it, the man stretched out in the king chair, whatever that is, at the top of this little ravine, looking out on his lands in the distance.

Harley crashes into the soaking pools’ clearing with a hoot, and jumps for the water, hitting it faster than is probably advisable. 

“God _dammit_ , Harley,” swears Tony, startling awake and aware, the image Peter had tried to memorize immediately broken by his scowl. “How the hell do you come to sit in the hot springs and get _more wound up_?”

Peter feels guilty, momentarily, as he slips into the pool much more calmly, Harley laughing at Tony and shaking his head with a cocky grin, quipping something that Peter doesn’t pay any attention to as his head spins.

“Yeah, yeah,” waves off Tony, asking, “You hungry yet?”

“Always,” pronounces Harley happily. “Cookies?!”

“Campfire first, we’ll see if there’s any canned stew still put up,” says Tony decisively, nodding his head.

“Nice,” agrees Harley happily, sharing his sunshine smile with Peter. “You hungry?”

“I am,” agrees Peter, feeling a little disconnected and dizzy again. He’s pretty sure that he’s hungry, anyway.

“Hey, you okay?” asks Tony, leaning forward. “The hot springs can hit hard, s’why I stay here in the soaking pool.”

“Yeah, I’m-” Peter giggles a little, helplessly. “I’m a little dizzy, I guess.”

Harley grins wickedly at him for a single flashing second before saying, “Well, that’s a good sign we should get out, huh, Tony? Go eat?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” agrees Tony, groaning as he turns and lifts himself up and out of the pool, the water cascading from his body.

Peter swallows and rises himself, getting half out as Harley launches himself up on the wooden platform with Tony. Both of them immediately begin to run their hands through their hair, chasing the water droplets released down their arms, pressing the water from their bodies.

“Your flannel?” offers Tony quietly, grabbing his own down from the tree and using it to wipe after his hands, the soft brushed fabric rubbing roughly. Peter wouldn’t rub roughly, he’d be so gentle, if he were to be the one drying Tony’s body, he thinks. He’d rub that soft flannel everywhere, and be gentle with it.

“Yeah, grab it down for me?” grunts Harley, bending to run the water from his legs as unselfconsciously as he’d run it from his arms and chest.

Tony grunts and reaches up, tossing the flannel down carelessly, so that it hits Harley’s bent form with a whump. Harley growls and Tony chuckles, reaching up for his boxers before slotting Peter a glance. “You okay, kid?” he asks, his face falling into concerned lines. 

“Dizzy,” Peter says shortly, getting to his feet slower, trying to mimic their shamelessness.

“Well, go slow then,” snorted Tony, “but get out, because the only reason to leave the springs is to _eat_.”

Harley makes a happy noise of agreement, nodding his head as he reaches up the tree for Peter’s flannel. He hands it carefully to Peter, and there’s something in his face, in his expression and the way his eyes linger on Peter’s body, that makes Peter think he’d want to rub Peter with it, if they were alone. Harley meets his eyes, his back turned to Tony gathering his clothes from the tree, and Peter swallows. Harley doesn’t look like he’d want to rush the job, either.

Peter scrubs himself down as quickly as he can, Harley handing him his underwear casually. He scrambles into them and watches Harley’s welts disappear under his jeans, Harley’s undershirt re-tucked and the belt buckled while he watches.

“Steve ain’t got you a belt?” asks Tony, sounding surprised, as he turns to hand Peter his jeans. Peter slides into the jeans as quickly as the underwear, zipping up and catching Tony’s gaze riveted on his waistline. 

_What is it with these people and belts?_ he thinks, embarrassment rising up his cheeks. Steve had measured his waist the same way, stared at it for a long moment like he’d tried to size it up and it was _weird_.

 _What is it with this place and stiff breezes?_ he asks himself, as Tony’s gaze rises up to meet his, his eyebrows quirked in consideration and his head tilted just the smallest amount. Something about the look makes Peter want to apologize but- but what would he be apologizing for?

Harley tosses Peter’s undershirt at his head and solves the problem by breaking the moment. 

“No, I was figurin’ we’d make one at Logan’s,” said Harley easily. “Emboss it out with like, the stamps and stuff, make it nice. Something to remember us by, when he gets home.”

Tony’s lips are pursed when Peter’s head pops out of the neckline of the undershirt and he nods. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. I hear from Clint they’re gonna try to keep you ‘til December,” he tells Peter with a grin.

Peter shrugs one shoulder, his stomach suddenly feeling hollow and his head light. 

“Let’s go, campfire,” declares Tony, as they grab their socks and shove their feet in them, Harley accidentally putting on one of Tony’s and one of Peter’s before returning them to their owners and finding his own socks shoved in his boots.

“I’m starving,” declares Harley, bounding off once his boots are shoved on, wrapping his flannel shirt around his waist to hang off his hips.

“Stew,” Tony calls at him. “And start finding kindling, after you set out the stew!”

“You got it, hoss,” laughs Harley’s voice, echoing a bit against the rock walls.

Peter sits to pull on his socks and Tony leans against the tree to do the same. “You look flushed,” he accuses Peter. “How lightheaded we talking about, here?”

“Just dizzy,” Peter assures Tony.

“Hmm,” hums Tony. “Well, take your time. Probably just blood sugar and the hot springs but you _tell_ me if it doesn’t go away, or if you feel like fainting, okay?”

Peter looks over at Tony, whose gaze hardens the longer they share the look. “I mean, it, Peter,” says Tony sternly, stepping forward.

Peter skitters backward, trying to make it look like he was only looking for his boots. “Yeah, yes, yessir,” he stammers.

“Good. Be safe,” mocks Tony, prowling forward and helping Peter to stand by hauling him upright bodily. 

_Stiff breezes_ , thinks Peter a little giddily, realizing how strong Tony is, how those hard muscles are made for _work_ , hard work, ranching work.

“Move,” orders Tony, as Peter kicks into his boots, nodding at the path down to the base camp. “Steve’ll skin me,” he adds under his breath.

~~~

The campfire crackles with warmth as the air chills, Harley showing Peter how to drape his flannel shirt on the stones to dry it and warm it through. 

“Base camp’s barely worse than living in a hotel,” Harley laughs, shaking his head as Tony points out the outhouse beyond the shed.

Tony is walking Peter through how to prime the pump, dumping a bucket of water from the hot springs into the spigot and pumping the handle up and down until water begins to flow. “Go ahead, stay at it ‘til it’s cold as a witch’s teat,” Tony says in satisfaction. 

“How cold is _that?”_ asks Peter, shocked.

“Really fucking cold,” calls Harley. “That well’s way down into the rock, right directly into a cold spring, some kind of river run-off, Forge says. Lots of water in this valley, that’s why it’s got the woods, between the river and the springs and all, just makes sense to put the home farm here, see?”

“Should hurt your teeth to drink it,” agrees Tony easily. “So, what’s on the plan for tomorrow, Half-pint?”

“Fishing,” says Harley firmly. 

“Easy yes,” seconds Tony, looking over at Peter pumping water and then calling, “Peter?”

“What? Oh, yeah, fishing sounds good,” Peter tells him, startled to be included in the decision making.

“And hot springs,” adds Harley. 

Tony snorts. “Obviously.”

“And eatin’,” adds Harley again, feeding the fire and stirring the stew in the huge black pot hanging from the thick hook over it.

“Sounds right,” agrees Tony, grinning at Peter.

“We should ride, too, or Tantrum’ll have a fit,” sighs Harley, giving his high-spirited horse a glower.

“Good,” praises Tony, shaking his head and digging in a plastic tub for three metal plates and thick wooden spoons.

“How many buckets should I fill?” asks Peter, looking at the plastic containers stacked near the pump. 

“Four,” say Tony and Harley in unison, grinning at each other.

It seems like a lot of water but that’s fine with Peter.

“Don’t forget to refill the priming bucket,” Tony says firmly.

“Yeah, or you can climb your happy ass back up the trail just to turn around and fill the pump,” grunts Harley. “I ain’t doing it.”

~~~

Later that night, the smoke rises up from the smaller fire as they sit on the rough stone benches placed around it. 

“Sing, Tony,” demands Harley, after Peter finishes laughing about a story about a trout that refused to let Steve land him but cuddled right up into Bucky’s hand.

“Half-pint,” drawls Tony, like he’s uncomfortable and pleased at the same time.

“Please?” asks Harley, before yawning. “I’m beat, it’s almost time to sack out, please?”

“Well, go brush your teeth, take a last piss, then come back and ask again,” orders Tony. “Take Peter,” he adds.

Peter startles out of his comfortable daze and stumbles after Harley to their tent. 

“Packed ‘em same as me, right?” asks Harley, crawling inside and digging through their bags with a flashlight clenched in his teeth.

“Yes,” agrees Peter.

“Found ‘em! Share toothpaste, you okay with Crest?” asks Harley.

“Sure,” says Peter, shrugging in the darkness, where Harley can’t see him.

They stop by the pump and brush their teeth, spitting by a tree stump nearby. “Everybody spits on it,” Harley tells him, chuckling happily while his mouth foams. “One time when we were up here, think it was Johnny that time, he was spittin’ and riling people up. Bucky made him stand there and spit ‘til he was dry and crying about never spittin’ again, so we call it the Spittin’ Stump. Well, the ones who were there, anyway. Some of the newer ones, too.”

Peter nods and spits, and gladly accepts the cup Harley hands him full of spring cold water.

Harley takes him up to the outhouse and shows him how to shine the light inside to scare out any wildlife that might have taken up residence, “Although most won’t, with the way it smells,” laughs Harley, and Peter has to agree, when it’s his turn.

“We’re ready,” Harley shouts as they walk back towards the light of the campfire and the two tents staked out on either side of it.

“Well, settle, and I’ll sing,” says Tony, taking another sip of the steaming beverage in the mug held cupped in his hands. “And then you two can hit the hay, huh?”

“Yes, Tony,” says Harley excitedly, sliding into place on the rough bench beside the rock campstove. He waves for Peter to sit beside him as Tony tips back a little on the rough-hewn log seat he’s perched on. 

Tony takes a long breath and sings out, “I ride an old Paint and I lead an old Dan/I’m going to Montana to throw the houlihan…”

His voice is rusty but pretty good, Peter decides, the tune clearly old and worn in, as Harley joins in, following the misfortunes of a cowboy through his career. Harley surprises Peter by sitting forward as Tony closes his mouth and singing, “You fill up my senses/Like a night in the forest,” Tony joining in for the rest of the song, their voices in imperfect harmony somehow making the moment seem ethereal. 

“That’s Steve’s favorite,” Harley says as the song ends. 

“Steve’s such a fucking romantic,” sneers Tony, gulping deeply from his cup. “He was born to live long enough to pay John Denver money.”

“He does like a lot of Denver stuff,” agrees Harley, shaking his head and smiling ruefully at Peter. Peter’s heart thuds as he realizes Harley was singing that song _for Peter_. Like, romantically.

“You want-” begins Tony.

“Boy Named Sue,” interrupts Harley, pulling his gaze off of Peter with obvious effort, shaking himself to add, “please, Tony, you’re the only one who’ll sing it when I’m around, please?”

“Well, my daddy left home/When I was three,” begins Tony, with a grin just for Harley, and Peter realizes why only Tony’ll sing it when it becomes clear why Harley loves the song. 

“I was five,” Harley tells Peter, laughing at the end, “but I definitely think if I ever meet the bastard, I’ll be throwing fists.”

“Harley’s not a girls name, not like Sue,” Peter tells him loyally.

Tony snorts. “Yeah, but Peter, you gotta understand, Harley’s first month here, Johnny was-”

“Such a jerk,” agrees Harley, shrugging his shoulders and grinning at Tony. “ _Tony_ didn’t mind if my fists got hard and my wits got keen on Johnny, but Bucky-”

“To be fair, you both took it too far, too often,” Tony interrupts, but he doesn’t say it like it’s a bad thing, Peter notes with interest. 

“So anyway, that’s my song, but no one will sing it but Tony, because it makes me and Johnny go pound on each other some more,” Harley declares almost proudly. He glances at Tony and says, “Well, if Johnny’s around, anyway. And we haven’t done it in awhile.”

Tony chuckles and shakes his head. “One more, Half-Pint, Peter’s almost out,” he declares.

Peter shakes his head, about to protest, when Harley says, “Sweet Baby James,” in a soft voice.

”Ah. Yeah,” sighs Tony, sitting up and pouring more hot water from the kettle on the warm stones of the camp stove. He cups his mug in his hands and crouches forward. “You sure?” he asks Harley quietly. “I don’t want you-”

“Sweet Baby James,” says Harley in that same soft tone. 

Tony draws a breath as Peter knocks his shoulder into Harley’s, a quizzical look on his face. Harley ignores him, looking across to Tony, whose solemn face makes Peter’s heart beat strangely.

Tony and Harley look right at each other for the whole of the song, Harley sitting silently while Tony’s voice echoes around the camp. 

_There is a young cowboy, he lives on the range._

_His horse and his cattle are his only companions_

_He works in the saddle and he sleeps in the canyons,_

_Waiting for summer, his pastures to change_

_And as the moon rises he sits by his fire, thinking about women and glasses of beer_

_And closing his eyes as the doggies retire, he sings out a song which is soft but it's clear_

_as if maybe someone could hear..._

_Goodnight you moonlight ladies, rock-a-bye sweet baby James_

_Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose,_

_Won't you let me go down in my dreams?_

_And rock-a-bye sweet baby James_

_Now the first of December was covered with snow_

_and so was the turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston_

_Though the Berkshires seemed dreamlike on account of that frosting_

_with ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go_

_There's a song that they sing when they take to the highway_

_a song that they sing when they take to the sea_

_a song that they sing of their home in the sky, maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep_

_but singing works just fine for me_

_So, goodnight you moonlight ladies, rock-a-bye sweet baby James_

_Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won't you let me go down in my dreams?_

_And rock-a-bye sweet baby James_

There’s a long pause as the last words echo into Peter’s memory crisply, the moment feeling sacred and special, somehow. Harley sits back and slumps a little against Peter’s shoulder.

“Only good dreams,” Tony says, heavily, like the words carry importance, like it’s an injunction and a command.

“Only good ones,” Harley agrees quietly, nodding.

“I do miss those days, Half-pint,” Tony says, his dark eyes flashing in the licks of firelight. “S’part of why I couldn’t wait to get you back up here.”

“I miss you when you leave,” sighs Harley, nodding again. He looks around the campsite as if lost and then says, “Bedtime, right?”

“That’s always the last song,” agrees Tony. “Night, Peter.”

“Good night, Tony,” says Peter in a small voice, nodding at the man as Harley pulls him up. He feels the man’s eyes on both of them as Harley leads the way to their tent, unzipping the door and sliding in, kicking off his boots immediately and turning to smile at Peter as Peter half-crawls, half-falls in. 

“Thank you, Tony,” Harley calls, as he rolls the zipper closed.

“You bet, Half-pint.” Tony’s voice sounds both clear and muffled through the canvas of the tent. “Sweet dreams,” Tony adds, his voice sounding absent as if he’s already lost in thought.

Or maybe memories.

Harley and Peter strip down to their thermals in the cool of the tent air and quickly wrestle with the top sleeping bag, sliding their bodies inside the cold fabric. _It had better warm up_ , thinks Peter with dire resentment before remembering the way Bucky’s cold water plunge had broken up his misery all those weeks ago.

Harley wraps Peter up in his arms immediately, clinging tightly and kissing Peter’s hair. “Y’feel good here,” he whispers.

“You feel good, too,” whispers Peter back, wiggling back into Harley’s warmth. Harley tugs the sleeping bag tighter around them, both of them shivering once or twice as their bodies react to how _cold_ the sleeping bag is. The ground underneath them is hard but the dense fill of the sleeping bag makes it comfortable enough.

“Harley?” he breathes.

“Mm?” hums Harley back at him, nuzzling the back of his neck.

“What was that song? The Moonlight Ladies one?”

“Oh. I used to… have nightmares,” says Harley, pulling Peter back to him tightly. “Bad ones. But then Tony would sing that song and I- stopped.”

Peter thinks about that, as the thick flannel fabric of the sleeping bag interior slowly begins to trap their body heat. “Does it work every time?” he asks, curious.

“Mm, almost,” sighs Harley, nuzzling at Peter’s neck. “Hush, though, he’ll come check on us if you don’t settle.”

Peter flushes, thinking of what Tony would see- there’s no way they could unzip the sleeping bags fast enough to prevent him from _seeing_ what Harley had done to them.

 _Wait, that wasn’t fair,_ Peter thought at himself, angrily.

What they’d done, together.

Harley’s lips press against the chilled skin at the nape of Peter’s neck. “G’sleep,” he suggests quietly. “I got you, tonight.”

Outside the tent, Tony moves and clanks things on the stovetop, probably pouring himself another cup, but there’s no way to know. Peter stays up longer than he’d ever admit, listening to the sounds Tony and the fire make deep into the night, long past when Harley’s breathing evens out with sleep, but he gives up his hold on the day before either Tony or the fire, and takes the comfort of knowing the man with the rusty lullabies is there, to guard their sleep through in the cool darkness that surrounds them.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Not dead, yaaaaay! Let me know you're also alive (and would like more) in the comment section!


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